


He's an Animal

by megazorzz



Series: All the Things You Are [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Because of this pairing obviously, Biting, Bottom!Bucky, Consent Issues, Dom/sub Undertones, Enthusiastic Consent, M/M, POV Second Person, POV Steve Rogers, Protective Steve Rogers, Rimming, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Rough all around, Rough play, Slight to Moderate amount of Angst, but not manifesting the way you think, post-op sex, top!steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-14 12:55:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2192601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megazorzz/pseuds/megazorzz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky's taste is simultaneously old and new; every bout with him is a new beast to tend with, and you love taming him, pinning him down. </p><p>You felt that you both needed to feel it, as if the rough edges made it more real. Every scratch and bite was a revelation. Bucky accepted and returned the furor, never once rejecting your urge to play rough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He's an Animal

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully this comes across as rough & tumble as I think it does. 
> 
> Regarding the consent issues, Steve knows Bucky likes it rough, but he feels as if he's somehow pressuring him into that style of lovemaking, even though he asks about it before and after. He does ask Bucky how he wants it and complies with those wishes in the fic, however. Really he's just over-thinking it. But keep that weirdness in mind.
> 
> This is also my first attempt at the second person point of view. I can't help but think I used "your" too much (but how do I extirpate it from the second person???). Any constructive feedback on style would be much appreciated. I've proofread it several times, but I no doubt missed something.

 

            Your back is still slick with sweat and your legs cramped from the eleven-hour flight and the hour in the cab. The pavement echoes underfoot and inch-by-inch, your wonderful Brooklyn brownstone rises to greet you. Phil Coulson is an inspiring leader, a perfect fit as SHIELD’s new director, but he owes you a vacation and you mentally schedule a phone call for tomorrow.

            You feel your heart pounding as the key slides wonderfully into the lock. No artillery fire, no explosions, no noise save for the occasional siren or chattering kids. “Kids,” you think and smirk. Now you know you’re getting old.

            The memories of ricocheting gunfire fade into the back of your mind as you climb all fifty-six wonderful steps to the apartment. At apartment 3-A, you stop and smile. Back in the day, Ms. Johansson always used to give you the last slice of her cherry tarts, payment for walking her dogs. Bucky always got the last bite, even though he didn’t earn it. You gave him the whole slice right before he shipped out for London. You watched his lips curl over the flaky crust and red filling. You wiped his mouth with yours.

            Pausing at the door to your apartment, you recite a silent, threadbare prayer. Maybe this time he’d be there before you arrived, showered, hair tied back, smile lines as deep as ever. Maybe he’d have the record player on and this time you wouldn’t have to wait by the bay windows, eyes skirting to the ends of the block, pencil hanging out of your mouth because it felt empty and lonesome.

            The last time your schedules coincided—seemingly by the whim of the Fates alone—he never came home. It wasn’t until a voicemail a week later that you found out he was still breathing. “Steve, buddy. I got caught up in something unexpected—this cartel runs deeper than any of us ever suspected. Crazy, eh? Listen, I don’t have enough time to get sentimental, Coulson’s shipping us out to Argentina. I miss you, Steve. See ya soon.”

            You find your key and your courage. The door creaks open forbiddingly, the air dense and still. The rucksack thuds on the wood floor. You throw back the blinds and scan the room. No signs of life. You sigh in the hushed, dying light.

            Soon the shower is hissing over your worn muscles. Your left hand creeps south, but you keep it at bay, hope swelling in your gut that you don’t actively foster, but let bloom nonetheless. Sometimes after your return, you never get to see Bucky at all. “It’s just how things are.” After drying off, you raid the fridge and find it predictably empty.

            A short walk and you find that the grocer’s is surprisingly unpopulated, save for a few sets of eyes and low murmurs. “Is that really him?” you hear whispered over your shoulder. You also grab Bucky’s favorite beer. At least, you think it is, as he didn’t complain the last time he had it. He was quiet that week. Too much bloodshed on that op most likely, but you didn’t intrude.

            The total comes to $104.87 and your past self balks at that stack of twenties and you think about it all the way home. Money isn’t tight anymore, but modest living had become stubborn habit by now.

            By the time you return, the air had changed. The bags of groceries sag on the counter and you listen to the sound of your pulse. You hear the flip of a switch and a scratch of a record. “It Had to be You” performed by Dick Haymes starts filtering through the air, and the second it hits your ears, a Pavlovian signal rushes from your brain to your cock.

            A cool hand caresses the back of your neck. The top three buttons of your chambray shirt come undone, seemingly of their own accord. A warm hand runs beneath your collar. A soft “Hey” is the only word that registers, and Bucky swings you around. His eyes are consumed by mischief. He wets his lips and runs his tongue over his teeth, like a wolf preparing for the first juicy bite.

            His mouth burns at your lower jaw and up to your lips and soon Bucky’s teeth are clicking against yours and the musk of sweat fills your nostrils. Your left elbow knocks over a plastic bag, but the falling cans are the last thing on your mind.

            Soon you’re in the living room. His shoes fly off and your shirt quickly follows.  His eyes are vicious as they scan your skin. He’s ready to eat you alive and you can’t help but smile.

            He leaps up into your arms. His legs curl around your hips in a vice grip. Your hands frantically travel the well-trod paths of his quads and over the firm rinds his glutes, which fill your palms like ripe peaches. His mouth devours yours. His hair hangs down in sweaty strands and tickles your ears.

            His taste is simultaneously old and new; every bout with him is a new beast to tend with, and you love taming him, pinning him down. He pulls back and grins. Grinding his hips against yours, he thrusts hard and the force sends you hurtling back into the recliner. “I missed you,” he gasps. “Goddamn, I missed you.”

            “How long has it been, six weeks?” You stroke his hair.

            A fond, but devious flicker dances behind his eyes. “It looks like we have some catching up to do.” Sieging hands interrupt your thoughtful pause.  He’s sucking bruises into your neck, brutal and needy like a teething predator.

            But you’re an animal too. You find a hole in his tank top and rip the ratty garment to shreds. His eyelashes flutter playfully as the rags fall off his shoulders. “Steve,” he whispers. It’s a game of give-and-take between you two, though it wasn’t always so.

            Despite Bucky’s airs and near-tangible machismo, his first kisses were delicate and fleeting, as if he wanted to fool you into thinking they were imaginary. His slick smirk gave way to trembling lips. His snide glances dissolved into wide, wary gazes. He didn’t dare leave a bruise on you then, but that was before you both became weapons, before years of war and killing imbued in both of you a deeper and more desperate thirst for life. For each other.

            His metal fingers click against your belt buckle. As he lowers himself to the ground at your feet, you meet a shockingly timid gaze, but then it vanishes, replaced by something foreign but somehow still Bucky. You think of what he might have been like without interference of lost decades—if he would still treat you like a fruit easily bruised. Soon those thoughts are driven away by cool air against your cock. Your discarded trousers sag in the corner.

            You receive three playful seconds of stillness before Bucky wolfs it down. Your gasps fill the air, and you’re grateful the record player is there to cover them up. Bucky’s eyes follow yours as he bobs up and down. Dick Haymes’ baritone floats beneath your high, but you can’t place the title.

            A purely pornographic strand of spit hangs between his lower lip and the glistening head as he comes up for air. You snicker, as you are certain Bucky’s doing it on purpose. His grin confirms it.

            He sucks down the whole shaft for a minute more before picking you up beneath the knees. Your legs wrap around his chest, ankles meeting at the back, and he carries you to the bedroom, his mouth all but consuming yours. To think he blushed the first time you slept together. The flush that now streaks across his face, neck and shoulders is everything but embarrassment.

            The floor length mirror glints in the setting sun, sending a bright stripe across your chest. You turn your head as he works on your neck and a magnificent line of black and blue brands you as his. His rough cargo pants rub against your hard-on.

            “Hey. Hey, Buck.” You nearly squeal when his mouth leaves your skin with a pop. “How about you lose those pants, huh?” you gasp.

            He obeys in an instant, sliding them off in one fluid motion and throwing them in the dusty hamper. You don’t see him fiddle with any undergarments. He licks his lips.

            Then he stops in his tracks, letting you admire hardened lines of his torso and the swelling muscle. He’s always been a bit of a show-off. That much hasn’t changed.

            “Aren’t you getting chilly over there?” you ask, hand beckoning. He nimbly crawls across the bed, his cock leaving small dribbles along your abdomen and sits with your cock sliding between his cheeks. He traces his fingers along your shoulder and finds his markings. He presses down into the now green marks, making them blossom in purples and reds. You wince. “More,” you gasp.

            He leans over and gnaws from your collarbone down, down to your right nipple, your right hand digging into his damp hair and your left nesting in his pubic hair. Just as he bites down, you squeeze and a low growl vibrates against your skin. He bucks, hips rising and falling. Every worry drains from his face as you stroke him.

            “I think,” you start, between deep pants, “I’ve been getting all the attention. What do you need? Tell me.”

            Bucky tucks his hair behind his ears. “I need…” he stops, glimpses of Old Bucky emerging in his face, cocky yet unsure, as if this time with you would be his last. You rub the small of his back. It always calmed him down back in your old apartment, back when he’d come home late from the docks or from the bar, flushed and sweaty, sometimes hoarse from yelling all day or arguing with an errant drunk late at night. 

            “I want you to eat me.”

            “Shower first,” you murmur. He rolls over and struts toward the bathroom, back muscles rippling. Again, you have to keep your hand in check. The shower hisses for an eternity, when in reality, he’s in and out in five minutes.

            “Squeaky clean,” he says. You roll off the bed to make room. Bucky assumes the position on his hands and knees, as you stand at the foot of the bed. Soft praise flows from your lips. “I love you like this.”

            Your tongue involuntarily makes its rounds around your plush lips and you carefully crawl into bed, as if approaching an animal easily startled. Your calloused hands spread him wide. Bucky lowers himself from his hands to his elbows, eyeing you through a haze. You take your first lick and he groans into the comforter, “Goddamn, Steve.”

            You make a deep, wet swirl, letting the tip of your tongue sink in. He whimpers beneath you and you feel the sheets curl beneath his fingers. The vibrations firing up and down his nerves do not cease. Soon your leaving marks of your own on his cheeks. You barely come up for air and the pleased whines are constant.

            Bucky punches the headboard and you stop. His breathing is heavy. “Is something wrong? We can stop—”

            “No stopping,” he growls. He swings a leg over and he’s on his back. The dresser drawer almost flies across the room as he pulls it open. He tosses you a bottle of lube.

            “Is that an order? How do you want it?” you ask.

            “I wanna break the bed frame,” he says, throwing himself back onto the mattress.

            “And?”

            “I want people three blocks over to hear us. I wanna lose the security deposit. I want people to think about calling the police.”

            “Anything else?” you ask, cocking an eyebrow, letting drops of sweat block Bucky’s chest.

            He knits his brow and looks at you with sweltering, rapacious eyes. “I wanna feel this in the morning,” Bucky he says, pupils blown wide, taking your hand and dragging your nails gently up his chest. He grasps your hand tight and then sucks your middle finger into his mouth. You realize that you taught him to quench his thirst through bites.

            He spreads his legs. You pop the top off the bottle, sending the cap flying into the corner. A liberal dollop empties on your palm and gets spread evenly between your cock and Bucky’s ass.

            He’s ready. He breathes deep through his nostrils as you line up and take aim. His breath hitches when you tease his hole and he cuts his chuckle short as he meets your gaze. “Come on,” he says.

            His eyes are cool and glacial, glazed over with the pregnant anticipation of your entry. You lean over and give him one last lick before you begin in earnest. Two heated seconds pass and all at once you’re plunging into him. He groans and nods, reveling in his prize.

            The bed rocks on its joints, headboard thwacking against the wall, chipping the paint. Bucky lets out an insatiable roar as the plunder continues, your shaft sliding in and out, in and out like an unyielding tide. Sweat glistens on his skin like diamonds. His cybernetic arm reaches over the edge of the frame for precious leverage. The metal panels slide and lock into place, confirming that he’s using all of his strength to be as close as possible to your pounding pivot.

            Your eyes run up and down this rare beast, from the patch of hair at his stiff cock to the bared teeth to the glazed over eyes. He pokes at your chest with a big toe and you take a step back, your cock bouncing in the sudden cold. Bucky flips over onto his hands and knees and you dive right back in, scratching the hard wood floors and denting the walls.

            Every lurid act makes up for decades of separation, years of pent up guilt and pining. The adrenaline of every blood-soaked mission, grazing bullet and knife’s edge floods your system as you pound relentlessly, telling you again and again and again that, "Yes!" you’re alive, that Bucky’s alive and, "Fuck!" you’re gonna let him feel it because, "Damn!", this may be the last time.

            “I’m close,” Bucky gasps. His mouth is wide open. Your thumb finds its way to his cock’s head, where it swirls in pace with your thrusts. His arm seethes, re-calibrates and shreds the sheets. His groaning and snarling almost set you off, but you know better than to finish before he does.

            Like the cork in a bottle of champagne, he pops open, emptying into your hand as he moans into the sweat-stained pillow. You cannot control yourself as you push in the last few times and erupt. Bucky’s hand finds yours and he squeezes so tight that it hurts, but you can barely feel it as the orgasm careens through nerve endings in every extremity.

            You pull out, drenched in sweat, uncaring of what fluid ends up where. Bucky flops onto his back, air rushing in and out of his lungs, mouth wordlessly ajar, arms clamoring to envelop you.

            “Steve,” he moans over and over again.

           

\+ + +

 

            Hours later, civility has since returned to your mind. The sheets have been changed, ravaged two more times after the first bout, and they sit in a pile by the washing machine. A lot of thread might save them, but you aren’t too worried about it.

            You knocked on the neighbor’s door and concluded that they were either out of town, or, more likely, that they were willfully ignoring the sex-crazed maniac from next door. Either way, you decide to send them a fruit basket on Monday.

            Bucky is soft and quiet and sated, filled with carb-heavy, burdensome food and at last sleepy. He eyes you in the dim light. His lips are curved in a smile that seems endless.

            You lie down next to him, skin-on-skin. You’re arms curl around him like a cage. Just as you’re about to doze off you ask, “Do you remember our first time?”

            Bucky shifts. “That time? What was that, almost a year ago already? ‘Course I do.”

            You almost sigh but catch your breath. “No, not that time. Back when we were younger. Before the war.”

            You can almost feel him raking his memory and he stretches out onto his side and faces you. “Sort of. I remember feeling weird. Not ‘bad weird.’" He concentrates. "More like shy.” He tucks his hair behind his right ear. “It was a long time ago, though. Why?” Your breath melds with his beneath the covers.

            His brow furrows as you kiss his forehead. “Just curious, that’s all.”

            “Curious about what?”

            “Sex was different back then for us.”

            He leans up on his elbow, hair hanging over his head like a shadow. “Different as in ‘better?’”

            Leaning up on your elbows, the stubble of your cheek brushes against his. “Not better. Just different.”

            You think of the first time you two had sex after he returned, after James Buchanan Barnes emerged once more. He was still shaky, unsure, but you set him on a path then, a rough one. You felt that you both needed to feel it, as if the rough edges made it more real. Every scratch and bite was a revelation. Bucky accepted and returned the fervor, never once rejecting your urge to play rough, to play like an animal.

            In your fevered, dreamlike state, you forgot that he was inured to training and that he had spent decades pliant and responsive. But you couldn’t stop. He never told you to stop or to be gentle, but the fears insidiously multiplied. Time passed by so quickly that it all became a habit between you two, a savage mission neither of you were briefed on.

            “Different, huh?” Bucky whispers.

            “Do you like it? The way we’ve been going at it?”

            He huffs and shakes his head. “If I didn’t like it, do you think I woulda told you to give it to me like that?”

            “No. You wouldn’t.”

            He buries his face in the crook of your neck. “Then stop thinking about it. People change. Sex changes. I’ve changed. You’ve changed. We’re soldiers, we like the tussle.”

            You creep closer. “Just tell me if you ever need me to be more gentle. Whatever you need, okay? Promise?”

            “I only need _you_ , Steve. I don’t care if it’s rough or soft or in the kitchen or whatever. Besides, you did good today.” Even in the dark you can see his smile as he slides into you, arms and legs wrapping around yours. “I’m definitely gonna feel this in the morning.”

            You share a chuckle and soon you’re both snoring, totally spent.

           


End file.
